Harry Potter and the Power of Diplomacy
by Metal Dragoon
Summary: Re-work of The "Rock of Ages".  Dumbledore is forced to look abroad in order to find a proper DADA Teacher.  When he calls in an old favor, will the results be worth it?  After all, if there's one things Americans are good at, it's upsetting plans.


Albus Dumbledore looked at his desk in desperation. Absolutely no one would respond to his requests for a DADA teacher! Even though it had only been a week since the end of last term, he'd always had a new DADA teacher on hand by now to give the time to acclimatize themselves to the castle, and get a syllabus together. And while Fudge had made some sort of mention about sending a "ministry approved" teacher to take the slot, he wasn't willing to let some spy for Fudge's agenda stroll into HIS castle. But if he couldn't get anyone in Britain to take the position than who...? He looked up, eyes sparkling as a somewhat maniacal grin formed on his weathered face. "Of course. Not only would it be a perfect way to appease the Americans that have been clamoring for an explanation for the Death Eater forays into their own territories, but it would also tweak Fudge's nose like nothing else!" Dumbledore laughed to himself, he was a genius! Getting to work, he quickly composed a letter and handed it to Fawkes. "Please take this to Tomahawk my friend."

A quarter of the way round the world, in a complex buried several hundred feet beneath the Potomac River, Fawkes appeared on a perch in a small burst of flame, barely avoiding the thick pointed beak of the large raven that suddenly found itself sharing its personal space with the phoenix.

"One of these days he's not gonna miss you know," a gravelly voice cut in. The phoenix looked over to the owner of the voice, and the office he was in. A weathered Native American man wearing a worn plaid shirt and a pair of jeans, his semi-long salt and pepper hair caught in a tail at the nape of his neck. He was currently giving Fawkes a grateful look, as his arrival meant a distraction from paperwork. "Well, lemme see what the old coot wants this time," the man said, before holding out his hand expectantly. Fawkes bent forward and deposited the letter with a small trill, before taking off to avoid another attack from the raven. "Stop it Diablo, this is no time for play." The raven eyed his partner with a withering gaze before clacking his beak and then tucking his head under his wing, feigning sleep. The man chuckled at his partner's action (they'd known each other far too long to simply call their relationship familiar and master) before opening the sealed envelope and scanning the contents. After a moment, he looked up, straight into Fawkes' eyes as the phoenix landed on the raised edge of his desk. "He's up to something, isn't he." The phoenix seemed extremely unhappy, but nodded a little. "Would it be in the best interests of all parties concerned if I dropped a wrench in this plan of his?" A shake of the head, followed by a nod. "So his end intentions are good, but his methods stink. Would it be better if I rewrote the script for this little play he's written?" Another sad nod. "Right then. You can hang out in the post room if you'd like, chat with the other birds, or just wander a little. Come back in an hour or two and I should have everything ready for Dumbledore." Fawkes nodded, and took wing again, flying through the door that opened when the man hit a button on his desk.

The man punched a button on the intercom installed in his desk, and waited for the husky cajun tones of his secretary. "Yes boss-mon?"

"Stranglethorn, could you please dig up a copy of our Special Loan Contract. And make sure all the t's are crossed and the i's dotted before I get it?"

The female swamp troll on the other end of the line blinked for a moment, before she recognized the code phrase for what it was. "A'course boss-mon, I be gettin righ on it."

In his office, Thomas Darkhawk, codenamed Tomahawk and leader of the American Magical Investigation Bureau, or MIB, sighed as he used his desktop to go over various teams and plan out what the hell he was gonna do now, and who the hell he was going to drop into this Charlie Foxtrot that Dumbledore seemed to have brought on the English wizarding world. As he scrolled through the various teams he had under his command, a certain team name caught his eye. Opening the file he went over their field record as well as their disciplinary records. He started to murmur to himself as he went through their files, an idea forming. "Good, they're all capable of adapting and reacting to situations on the fly, and their case records are nothing to sneeze at on an individual basis either. Some issues with obeying authority, but never if the orders they're given fit within their scope of what's right and what's not and they're ultimately loyal to their friends and teammates above all others. Leader's decorated enough to gain even the British Ministry's bass ackward approval, and laid back enough to connect with the kids while still teaching em which end of the wand to hold." He stopped for a moment as he looked up the team leader's specialization, before he laughed out loud. "Even better, puts every single one of em on even ground in unknown territory!" He punched the button for his secretary. "'Thorn?"

"Yes Boss-mon?"

"Get me the Outlaw Team Leader please."

"Righ away boss-mon."

Ten minutes later Stranglethorn stuck her head into Tomahawk's office, sliding one lock of blood red hair behind her pointed green ear as she did so. Tomahawk looked up from a small stack of slim folders he'd filled with a few sheets of paper to each. "De Rockhound be here boss." Tomahawk nodded his thanks as he set down the file he was currently looking over.

"About how long until the boys in Legal get done with the contract 'Thorn?"

"Penspike said it'd be 'bout a half hour boss."

"Thanks 'Thorn." He glanced at the clock on the wall. "Go take a break hun, I can handle Rockhound on my lonesome." She smiled at him, displaying her tusks more than usual in the grin, before slipping off to grab a cup of coffee and see if that cute new transfer from the West Coast was free. As she left the leader for the Outlaw team, codename Rockhound walked in.

He was of decent height, almost six feet, with a powerful but still somewhat slim frame. Thick brown hair was tucked out of sight beneath a worn ball cap, while amber eyes that were usually alight with mischief studied his commander with a deep intensity, a pair of oakleys dangling from his grip. Bluejeans, steel-toed boots and a battered brown bomber jacket over a bright green shirt that read "Fight me, I'm Irish" completed the picture. "Siddown O'Reilly."

Shawn O'Reilly sat, his posture relaxed as he shot a grin at Tomahawk. "What can the Outlaws do for you boss?"

"I just received a request from an old acquaintance of mine, one Albus Dumbledore. You're familiar with the current situation in England?" Shawn grimaced. It was part and parcel of a Team Leader's job to be aware of all major goings on in the magical world, one never knew where their team might be dispatched next. And quite frankly the immense FUBAR in England was something of a professional insult to most of the MIB as enforcers of the law, especially considering how most of the Brit Aurors looked down their noses at their cousins across the pond. "Good, because your team is heading there on special assignment. The only thing is is that Dumbledore thinks he's only getting one of you, to act as their Defense Against Dark Arts teacher and provide "a measure of extra security for Hogwarts"." Shawn's ears seemed to perk up like a dog's as he leaned forward, his grin reappearing.

"Special Loan contract?"

"Special Loan contract. And I'm including _all_ the clauses in this one. I'm also authorizing your team to kit themselves out for prolonged heavy combat without chances of resupply, as well as allowing you to take three separate Insta-portals for immediate backup. I'll leave it to you to decide who your allies will be, just have the information on Agent Becerra's desk before you leave so he can put them on notice and re-supply the armory. Now remember not to tip your hand too fast, Dumbledore has to sign the contract first, and after that there _are _ways to get around the clauses, if he's given the time and incentive." 'And a dozen teams of crack lawyers,' he smugly thought to himself. "One issue I'd like you to look into before his signature is even dry is a specific group of students, namely a boy named Harry Potter and his friends. Intel we've gathered shows that they're targets for this Lord Moldwart or whatever his damn name is, big ones. Last word was that he was forced into mortal combat and witnessed the death of a fellow student at the end of the year and then packed off to his relatives' place, no form of counseling or anything. And from what I've pieced together from the reports we've got on his blood relations, living with them is hardly a picnic at the best of times. Latest word is that all communications to him from his friends and the outside magical world in general have been cut off as well."

Shawn sat back in his chair, a gimlet sharp glint in his eyes. "And you're telling me that Dumbledore condoned all this?"

"He arranged for it himself, at least as far as having the boy forced into running silent. The rest... well it appears the old idiot finally slipped off the deep end into senility."

"As soon as Dumbledore signs the contract I'll put two of my men on it sir, most likely Doc Holiday and Firestorm. Between the two of them there's not much that can't be handled on the fly and still keep the 'danes out of the loop, and Firestorm has family across the pond he visits, so he can help Doc get acclimated faster." Neither man made mention of the particular philosophies of these men concerning child abuse and those that participated in or condoned it.

"Anything else boss?"

Tomahawk shook his head. "I'm leaving it up to you to evaluate the situation and decide what needs to be done. Should you or one of your tacticians feel that you're in over your head, call for backup. I don't care if it's us or an ally you trust, but get someone over there to watch your six triple-time. You already know the terms defining the situations you're allowed to activate the 'port's in."

Shawn nodded and rose fluidly, assuming a parade-rest stance as he stood in front of his superior's desk. Gone was the rather laid back devil-may-care man, and instead there was an experienced soldier. "Understood sir. I'll brief my team on the situation ASAP. How soon will it be before you need me to leave?"

"Prep your team to leave in 72 hours Rockhound, you yourself leave in 48. Dismissed."

Rockhound snapped off a crisp salute and turned on his heel, cocking his head to one side as he opened the door to let Fawkes back through. The phoenix gave a musical chirp as he lighted on the perch, prompting Diablo to reply with a muffled but still clearly derisive croak from under his wing. Tomahawk just shook his head as he finished writing something out on a sheet of paper, signing it with a flourish and plunking one of the cheap pens he preferred back into the other mug on his desk. "Here's my reply for Dumbledore." The phoenix gave a soft trill as he took the crisply folded letter in his beak before he vanished in a burst of flame. Tomahawk sat back in his chair, and met Diablo's fierce gaze. "Now we just sit back and see what's what ol' buddy." Diablo gave a harsh croak of agreement.

A few levels up, Shawn O'Reilly made his way to a door marked "DANGER ROOM" in large bold letters, while a more sedate plaque above the door proclaimed that it was actually the "Ben Franklin Training Center". Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he opened the door and stepped inside. And had to immediately duck to avoid being hit in the face by the shrieking Macaque monkey wearing a vest and small pair of pants as it sailed through the air. Luckily for the primate it was able to grab his sleeve as he passed, swinging itself up and around onto his shoulder before turning in the direction it had been hurled from and shrieking what were most likely horrible curses, with accompanying rude gestures. As one the rest of the people in the room froze, before assuming relaxed stances as the safety protocols kicked in, freezing the various golems they'd been fighting in place.

"Firestorm, why is Fuse pissed at you this time?" Shawn asked dryly. A tall red-headed man shuffled his feet a little, the various canisters attached to his own armored vest where there was room amongst the pockets clinking together at the movement. "Well, Burns?" The man flinched a little at the use of his real name.

"I kinda tossed him away so he wouldn't get tagged by this guy Boss," The red-head said, jerking a thumb behind him at the werewolf golem frozen in mid lunge, dulled teeth still glinting in the light. Shawn repressed a mental sigh. Charlie "Firestorm" Burns was quite possibly the most insane man he'd ever met who still had total control of his facilities. He was also the best explosives expert to grace the MIB in decades. The fact that he was (more than) slightly insane, had a monkey who was both equally as insane _and_ as capable with explosives as a pet, and a Latent (what the idiot Brits called a "Squib") actually made him a perfect fit in the Outlaw Unit.

"And the fact that you yanked him offa yer shoulder by his damn tail doesn't have a damn thing to do with it, does it 'Storm?" This came from a mountain of a man (who may or may not have had a "Born to Kill" tattoo), a toothy smile flashing in a dusky face as he pushed the brim of his stetson up. With a linebacker's build that towered near seven feet, his broad shoulders were draped in a brown leather duster, with huge hands and surprisingly nimble fingers at the end of tree-trunk arms. Said fingers were currently caressing the butt of the sawn-off shotgun James "Doc" Holiday concealed under his duster alongside various and sundry items. With a foul mouth and a foul temper that made his bedside manner more grating than nails on a chalkboard in most situations, there was no one better prepared to care for this team. With degrees in Magical Healing, Potions, Xeno-Biology and Xeno-Medicine from MIT&T, he could have easily opened his own practice. Instead he'd chosen to join the MIB as a Field Medic, and after bouncing from team to team had finally found a place with the Outlaws.

A wet cough had Shawn's gaze going to yet another of his team, who was clutching at his ribs with a pained expression on his unusual face. "I dink it was a good ding you sdopped de exercise Boss." Emanuel "Undertow" Scraza was a member of a race of amphibious Shark-People, distant relations to Mer-People who were able to shift between a full shark form to a sort of Anthromophic form, giving them greater range than their water-locked cousins. Emanuel's shark-form was a fifteen-foot long Tiger Shark. Usually though, he looked more like a Street Shark, only with a slightly more pointed face than his cartoon counterpart. The shape of his jaw and the number of teeth in his mouth affected his speech, turning his "t"s into "d"s.

His people mostly lived in an archipelago of islands in the Caribbean that had been hidden from Mundanes for centuries, but a few of the more adventurous had made contact with a group of Spanish wizards that had settled nearby on the mainland in what would become Florida. Emanuel was a large specimen of his race, standing nearly as tall as Doc. With slightly webbed hands and feet, dark blue-grey skin, a white chest and underarms, the thing that really stood out about him (once you got past the whole "TEETH!" thing" anyway) was the two foot dorsal fin that projected from his spine low on his back, as well as the three dark-brown stripes that stretched across his shoulders. Wearing simple drawstring pants with pockets and a belt that held his weapons and various items, he was the most under-dressed member of the team, though just as capable as any of the others in the thick of things thanks to his thick hide and surprising land speed.

"Are your injuries severe?" A heavy Russian voice asked. Emanuel shook his head no, even as Doc began to prod at the wounded area. "That is good then." The speaker was a Dwarf, ruggedly built, if a bit low to the ground, with a close-cropped copper beard and a head of short curls of the same hue. He was dressed in a sturdy beige jumpsuit with lots of pockets, a heavy mattock lung over one shoulder. Gregori "Ironfist" Bronzearms was a member of the Bronzearms Dwarf clan, who'd emigrated from Russia to Alaska in order to mine the plentiful resources there. With his background, he made for a perfect demolitions and geological expert; between his knowledge and Firestorm's explosive expertise there wasn't a structure in the world they couldn't bring down if they needed to. The Bronzearms also had extensive experience in keeping claim jumpers and thieves at bay, giving him a through grounding in defensive tactics as well; making him one of Shawn's two tactical advisers out in the field. Doc spoke up then.

"Looks like a simple bruising, no fractures. You'll be fine in a few hours, fishstick." Shawn spoke up then, slipping into "Leader Mode" as the team liked to call it.

"That's good, because we've got a new assignment, and you'll be playing follow-the-leader in 72. Wing, get over here will you?" The final member of the team dismounted from where he'd been perched on the back of an ogre golem, landing lightly with knees bent and a whisper of sound. At just under four feet tall, he was even shorter than Ironfist, covered from head to toe in black, with a bright red scarf wound over his lower face the only splash of real color. Tseng "Razorwing" Whiteclaw was a tengu, a race of Japanese crow goblins that supposedly had been the ones to impart the secrets of stealth combat to the first human shinobi. While bright brown eyes almost glowed from within the tight fitting hood he wore with expressions and emotions, not a sound had ever been heard from him. He "spoke" with gestures and partial facial expressions conveyed through the eyes and the tilt of his brow, and if pressed for time, writing in a small notebook he concealed on his person. But the team understood him easily after working with him, Firestorm better than most oddly enough. The two were an odd due, trio if you counted Fuse, but Shawn had long ago chalked it up to Firestorm and Fuse making enough noise for the three of them, while Tseng acted as a calming influence on Charlie. Razorwing was the infiltrator of the group, their Intelligence officer, and the offensive tactician to offset Ironfist's defensive tactics.

"So whad's de siduadion Boss?"

"We're getting put out on Special Loan to Hogwarts. But when I saw "we", the Brits only think they're getting "me". I'm leaving in 48 hours with the contract, you'll be following me 24 hours after that. Firestorm, I need you to call up your Brother-in-law and arrange for temporary housing over there. You and Doc are going to be doing some recon on a couple of the students, who seem to be major targets for the Big Bad over there. Keep it on the downlow, their Ministry is denying any and all claims that this Dark Lord character has shown up again." He handed two of the files over to Doc. "The student's names are Hermione Granger and Harry Potter. What intel we've gathered points to them living near enough to each other that you should be able to investigate them both at the same time."

"Why just us Boss? Shouldn't we take Tseng too?" Shawn shook his head.

"No, the Ministry is extremely paranoid about being discovered by 'danes. You two don't stick out at all, at least in comparison to the operatives the Brits send out to interact with the 'danes. That's why he'll be going solo before the school year starts to observe another two targets. They're brother and sister, so that makes it that much easier." He passed two more files to Tseng, who secreted them somewhere on his person. "Undertow, Ironfist, you're to meet up with me so we can arrange housing, get a good look at the layout of the castle interior, and see what local help we might be able to scare up to patrol the exterior that the Brit's haven't bothered looking at."

Gregori cupped his chin, looking thoughtful. "Payload for the mission?" Shawn grinned, this was the part he was going to enjoy.

"Tomahawk's given us the okay to load for dragon. I picked up the Insta-ports he's allowing us on my way up here, but we've still got to see Ed about the rest of our armory." Firestorm let out a whoop.

"Yes! More weapons and gadgets to field test!" That was another reason Firestorm was such a good fit for this team, they were often called on by the head of the Armory to field test new weapons and other gadgets during their less dangerous missions; and Charlie was the most enthusiastic of them all about it. Scarily enthusiastic one might say.

"Alright people, you've got your orders. Outlaws, let's ride!"

A couple of days later, in Surrey, Harry Potter was hiding beneath a window box in his Aunt's garden. It was late afternoon and his Uncle and Aunt had just switched on the telly for the news. For some reason he hadn't been getting much news, from his friends, or even Sirius, and he was desperate to make sure that Voldemort hadn't already started his bid for power. And since his Aunt and Uncle flat-out refused to allow him to watch the telly, even if it was just the news, he was forced into his current position. He stayed still through most of the boradcast, sports, weather, and random stories. Nothing that might have been Death Eater activity. No unexplained murders or disappearances, no strange sightnings; nothing. In a way it was even more worrying than it would have been if there _had_ been something. As the program began to wind down, a loud crack sounded through the neighborhood. To Harry, it sounded far too much like an Apparition, and he jumped, slamming his head against the window box. His head ringing from the blow, he heard Vernon roar something, and took off like a shot.

He didn't notice the monkey leaping from house to tree to bush and back up on a path parallel to his own.

Harry's blind panic eventually faded, and he found himself in a park that he'd often raced through when Dudley and his gang got up to one of their "Harry Hunts". As he made his way over to the swings he noticed his cousin and his gang, who seemed to be eying several small children like hyenas trying to decide who to cull from the herd. The only thing that kept them from acting on it at the moment was a rather intimidating looking black man wearing some sort of brown trench coat, who was glancing up from his crossword every now and then and giving Dudley's gang a fearsome scowl every time; as if he knew _exactly_ what they intended and he wasn't going to stand for it. The fact that the hands holding the rather small looking pencil and the crossword book seemed large enough to palm Dudley's fat head probably helped up the intimidation factor a few notches. The man looked over in Harry's direction at the crunch of his footsteps on gravel, but merely gave the slim boy a searching look, followed by a nod of the head, before going back to his crossword.

Harry sat down on the swings and began to swing himself back and forth slowly. It was almost his birthday, and he'd yet to hear anything from his friends. It was almost like they'd forgotten him... As he slowed to a stop, he heard the chains for the swing next to him give a harsh creak as someone very heavy settled in it. "Son, you look like you dog just died." The voice was somewhat rough, with a strong accent that Harry struggled to place for a moment, before shrugging and glancing over. It was the big man from the bench, and he had a sympathetic look on his face. "Now I ain't one for talking about my feelings or nothing, but as a doctor I'd like to think I'm a fair hand at listening. Care to talk about whatever it is? They say shared burdens are lighter y'know." Harry looked up at the man, who seemed genuinely interested in simply talking, and gave a shrug.

"There's not much I can say really. There was an... accident... at my school at the end of the year, and someone died. I was there when he died and I feel responsible for it. And since I came back to my relatives, none of my friends have sent me so much as a note. I... don't have any friends in the neighborhood, and my Aunt and Uncle want me to earn my keep, so I'm mostly doing chores when I'm not trying to do my summer homework or stay out of their way." One of the man's eyebrows rose, and a scowl flickered across his features before disappearing. When he spoke, there was the slightest bit of strain, though Harry was too far sunk into his own plight to detect it.

"Stay out of their way? These folks don't like you or something kid?" Harry nodded.

"My aunt absolutely hated my mother when they were children, and they all hate me too. That's my cousin over there," he added, pointing at Dudley. He didn't notice the thousand-yard stare that the youngest Dursley suddenly had directed his way, but Dudley did, and nearly stumbled over himself as he made excuses to his gang and headed home. Harry didn't notice, he'd gone back to staring at the ground. In the back of his mind James Holiday snarled to himself, wondering what kind of bastards would break a kid like this. It was obvious to him that he hadn't had any sort of counseling or therapy after the events in that damned graveyard, and it was eating at the boy's soul like poison. '_I hope he hasn't been reading that rag the _Prophet_,'_ he groused to himself, '_Or else he's gonna be wanting to hang himself before the summer's over...'_

"Lemme ask you this, son. Was there any way in the world that you could have known that that accident was going to happen?" Harry looked up at him, eyes a little lost.

"Well, no; but it was my fault he was even there in the first place! We were competing in an inter-school competition that I accidentally got entered in, and I wanted it to be a victory for Hog- I mean,our school, instead of just a personal victory!" Doc made a dismissive gesture with one hand.

"While it may have been your suggestion that he do whatever it is that got him into that position, it was his own choice whether or not to follow it. You're taking the blame for something that you had absolutely no control over. Face it son, sometimes; things just happen, and there's nothing in the universe that we could have done to change them without being omnipotent. That's one of the hardest things to accept about growing up, that sometimes you just don't have control. Hell, some people never learn that lesson no matter _how_ old they get."

Harry nodded, mind awhirl as he tried to grasp what this man was telling him, before glancing at the sky. Giving a start as he realized how late it was, he leaped to his feet. "I have to get back, they're going to be furious!" The man got up as well, picking up what looked like an American cowboy hat from the ground and slapping it against his thigh to remove any sand before putting it on and pulling the brim low to shade his eyes from the setting sun.

"I'll walk ya home kid, explain that we were talking and lost track of time." Harry nodded nervously, wondering what uncle Vernon's reaction to this walking mountain would be. While nowhere near Hagrid's impressive bulk, he was an extremely intimidating specimen of a normal human. He blinked as sudden realization hit him.

"Um, sir? You never told me your name." The man grinned a little.

"James Holiday, PhD, at your service. But you can just call me "Doc", son." Harry grinned up at the big man, feeling better after having talked to him, even if he'd only been able to tell a fraction of the true story. As he guided the man back towards the Dursleys, his thoughts turned inwards once again, mulling over everything he and "Doc" had talked about. He was so deep in introspection that he didn't notice when he lead Doc down an alley to cut across a few blocks, when the chill hit. The horrible, soul deep cold that haunted his nightmares alongside Cedric's last moments, and Voldemort's first corporeal appearance in fifteen years.

"Dementors," he whispered. And indeed, there were two of the black figures coming down the alley towards him at a good clip. Doc didn't even seem to have noticed them. For a moment, Harry's mind whirled. This man was a muggle. But the only way to drive off a Dementor that he knew of was the Patronus charm. After a moment of panic, he set his shoulders. 'Worst comes to worst, I suppose they can simply _obliviate_ him,' he thought to himself. Drawing his wand in a practiced motion (he'd managed to keep it with him this summer by a dint of careful concealment and the substitution of a carved stick handed over to his uncle), and shouted out the spell.

"_**EXPECTO PATRONUM!**_" Even as he tried to cast the spell, he felt something twist inside, and watched in horror as only a brief, insubstantial mist escaped the tip. Raising the wand for another try, he suddenly felt a large hand gently close on his shoulder, and nudge him to the side.

"Sorry about that kid, didn't expect a situation like this. Now stay behind me." Moving forward like some great beast of prey, Doc reached into his voluminous duster, retrieving a sawed-off shotgun that Harry was absolutely sure he hadn't seen earlier. As the man took aim, he muttered something under his breath that Harry was just barely able to catch. "I fucking _hate_ leeches." Then he fired twice, and Harry nearly fell to his knees from the sound, which was amplified by the close quarters of the alleyway. As Harry's ears stopped ringing, he became aware of a high-pitched keening coming from the area that had been on the wrong end of the barrel. Both Dementors were on the ground, screaming as white flames licked at their robes and thick, greasy looking smoke rose from the burning carcasses.

_cha-chak_

Harry looked back at Doc, who had simply pumped the shotgun a second time, ejecting the second casing, before shouldering it and giving the burning Dementors a contemptuous glare. Seeing Harry's fearful, questioning look the glare melted and he smiled a little. "White phosphorus shells. If the shot didn't kill 'em, the fire will," he said by way of explanation. Harry just gaped at him, even as sirens started to sound in the distance. "Sounds like someone heard my little pyrotechnics display. Better get going unless I wanna get bogged down by paperwork." As he spoke he took his shotgun down off his shoulder, and waved a hand over the barrel, muttering a quick phrase. In response a series of runes lit up; circling the muzzle and glowing a cool blue, before fading away. Harry stared in shock as Doc put the shotgun back under his coat, where no trace of it could be seen.

"You're a wizard?" Harry nearly shouted as he followed Doc out of the alley. Doc laughed heartily.

"Well I ain't no stage magician son."

A few minutes before, in Scotland, Albus Dumbledore was nearing the end of his rather long patience. He was in a meeting with the team leader of the group the Americans had forced on him with that bloody contract, and the entire time the stripling wizard had refused to budge a single inch on his ludicrous demands for his syllabus. Why did the students need more physical exercise? Quidditch was more than adequate when he was a student, and by Merlin's beard, it was more than adequate now! He turned his attention back to the young man as he finished winding down from his little explanation of why the students would benefit from more exercise. As if anyone else knew more about magical education and development than he did.

"So you see Professor, not only would a PE program give the kids more self confidence in themselves in the end, but it would also serve to strengthen their magic by strengthening how much raw power they can channel through their bodies." Dumbledore nodded politely.

"I will take your advice under consideration for future school years, but I'm afraid that the schedule will have to stand as it is Mr.-"

"Captain."

"Oh yes, of course; Captain." Another habit that the insubordinate little whelp had was the continuous need to force Albus to address him by his rank in the Colonies' little Auror wannabe organization. And he had point blank refused to dress as a proper wizard, citing things like the robes were "unsuitable for combat" and would "prevent him from carrying out his duties in an efficient manner". At that moment several of the monitors that were keeping track of Harry began to go off, before silencing within a few short seconds. Dumbledore rose quickly. "Please leave Mr. O'Reilly, I have private business I must attend to at once." As he spoke he was practically shoving the American out of the office. "We can finish our discussion at a later time yes? Good." With that he slammed the door behind the MIB agent. Shawn snorted to himself.

"Well that wasn't suspicious." A loud beeping from within his jacket drew his attention. Reaching in, he withdrew a newer model cell phone. Flipping it open he made his way down the stairs. "Rockhound here, talk to me."

-Boss, it's Doc. I've got a bit of a situation here.-

"How much of a bit of a situation?"

-I've made contact with that Potter kid you asked us to keep an eye on.- There was a noise on Doc's end of the line, followed by his somewhat distant voice "Don't be giving me that hurt look kid, you think it's coincidence that I was here when I was? And it's not like I lied to you or anything, I _am _a certified doctor." Following that was a sullen "Alright," that could have only come from a teenager. Then Doc was back.

-Anyway Boss, I talked with the kid for a bit, and then offered to escort him back to his relatives when he realized how late it was; explain why he was gone for so long, ya know? Well we got attacked on the way there. Two proto-liches, what they call Dementors over here. Kid tried to cast a Patronus spell even though he thought I was a 'dane, but it fizzled.- He left the exact reason _why_ it had fizzled out, but both men knew exactly what had happened.

"I assume you handled it in the usual Outlaw Manner?" Shawn's voice was packed with wry humor.

-Yeah Boss. When in doubt, kill it with fire. But I thought I should let you know.- Shawn nodded to himself.

"Good work Doc. Stick with the kid for a little while longer, make sure nothing else is coming down the pipe at him, then rendezvous with Firestorm. I assume he's been in contact with the other student?"

-Yeah, went to their house today to introduce himself; make sure they're doing alright. I'm meeting him at his Brother-In-Law's place.-

"Got it. Report back to me when you meet up, or if something else noteworthy happens. Rockhound out." With that he flipped his phone closed, and looked up to see Undertow looking at him. "How'd it go?" The Sharkadian shook his head.

"Dere compledely under his drall. No help unless he orders id from dem." He paused. "De giand squid on de oder hand, mighd be a bid smarder dhan dhey give id credid for. I'll dry and dalk wid id... somehow."

"Try morse code, it probably picked up a bit of it during one of the wars." Undertow nodded, before heading to the abandoned prefect bathroom that they'd converted to his sleeping quarters. He needed a rest, keeping his body heat up in the cold waters of the Scottish loch was draining, even more so when you were in a form that lost heat easily, as opposed to his full-shark form. _'Of course, dhen you lose dhe use of yer hands, and dhad's jus nod an opdion,'_ he thought to himself, nodding respectfully to Professor Flitwick as the half-goblin crossed his path. He and Professor Sprout had taken the news that they were going to be "invaded" by Americans best out of the main Hogwarts staff. Professor Snape had turned an... interesting color, the Deputy Headmistress had gotten rather flustered (and extremely Scottish), and Dumbledore... had learned that attempting to pry into a mind that held Top Secret information for the GMB was a Bad Idea. Apparently the Pain Phantom mental defense wasn't widely practiced in Europe, and Dumbledore hadn't been expecting it; at all. There had been a near panic when Dumbledore had keeled over, clutching at his boys. Undertow chuckled a little. Trust Rockhound to use the memory of being kicked in the balls by a soccer hooligan as the first layer in his mental shields. Each one of the Outlaws was no stranger to pain, and they'd learned how to use even the memory of pain as a weapon against opponents.

And really, he chuckled to himself as he slid into the warm saltwater he'd filled the huge bath with, how was it their fault that the old bastard had tried to peek into Rockhound's head in the first place?

Doc chomped on the toothpick he'd put between his teeth, then cursed under his breath as the blasted thing finally gave up the ghost and splintered in half. He spit it to one side, pausing to growl sub-vocally at a woman who seemed to think that giving him the hairy eyeball would accomplish something besides pissing him off. On his opposite side, Harry winced at the man's attitude. It was easy to see that the attack in the alley had set off some powerful reactions. Every passer-by was being discretely scanned from under the brim of the stetson, and his posture was such that Harry was positive the second he saw the first hint of an attack he'd roll out of the way and come up with that shotgun in his hands ready to fire.

And a part of him was hoping something would attack, just so he could see that beautiful armament in action again.

As the two of them made their way past Aunt Petunia's Rose bushes, he swore that the man's nostrils flared, right before he pivoted on his heel and drove his fist into empty air. Which immediately began retching and heaving. Doc grabbed a fistful of that same empty air, and strode up the path to the door of Number 4, before knocking harshly. Vernon Dursly opened the door, and for a moment thought that the giant that had come for the freak four years ago had decided to make a return, before realizing that this man wasn't quite tall enough, he was clean-shaven, and he was black. His lips barely had time to curl into a sneer before the man shouldered his way in, followed by the freak.

"Sorry to barge in, but I don't think you'd want this happening on your doorstep," the man rumbled, before making a jerking motion, coming away with a cloak in his hand. A dodgy individual was immediately revealed, hunched over and wheezing as he fell to the ground without the other man's support. Vernon's beady eyes narrowed into slits.

"You're one of them!" he hissed, "one of _his_ kind!" He didn't notice the dangerous light that went on behind the other man's eyes.

"And what _kind_ would that be, Dursly?"

"A freak! One of those wand-waving, _abnormal_-" _ka-chik_ "GAH!"

Doc's eyes were narrowed as he pressed the barrel of the shotgun into Vernon's porcine frame with his free hand, the other having dropped the cloak and grabbed the stranger by the scruff of his robe, shaking him every so often to insure he remained complacent and disoriented. "Does this look like a wand to you, fatass? Now shuddup and siddown while I find out who this punk is and if he was here for you; or the kid." With that he completely dismissed the other man, turning his attention to the scruffy character he was still holding aloft. Bringing his captive up and around so he could look him in the eye, with one arm, he stowed his shotgun and retrieved a pair of oddly marked handcuffs from within the shadows of his duster, catching one of the flailing man's wrists and then forcing the other cuff around his free wrist, before dropping him with little ceremony on the ground. He loomed over the other man, the stetson casting a dark shadow that obscured his eyes.

"Okay stinky, I'm going to ask you a series of simple questions. Answer them, or... okay; fuck that, you're gonna answer 'em, period. Now first, who the hell are you?"

The man groaned for a minute, before sitting up and looking at the his captor with something between disgust, awe, and more than a bit of fear. "Phaw, don't you bloody yanks treat anyone civilized?" His only answer was a rather menacing growl, which had the man holding up his hands in a gesture of peace. "Alright, alright, no need to get yer knickers in a twist. Name's Mundungus Fletcher, but m'friends call me Dung." Doc tipped his hat back to better glare at the man.

"You know what that tells me?" Dung shook his head. "It tells me two things: Jack, and Shit. Now, who're you working for, Dumbledore or Snake-face?"

Dung's face went pale and sweat began to bead on his brow. "How d'you know I'm not covert ops for the ministry?"

"Because the British ministry is too ass-backwards, proud, and prudish to even think about hiring anyone who looks like you for something as important as covert ops. That leaves only one of the two other major powers here in England, Voldemort or Dumbledore." Dung flinched violently when Doc said Riddle's assumed monikker, before starting to look offended. "Now look, I might not be one of the blessed Saints, but I ain't no Death Eater!" Doc smiled grimly.

"So why is the old man keeping tabs on the kid? And why are there confundus wards on the house?" Vernon, who up until now had been thoroughly cowed, sucked in a breath as his face purpled, before expelling it in a rush of air as Doc shot a black glare at him. Dung shrugged as best he could, a move that indicated to Doc that he was intimately familiar with various forms of being bound and how much room to move each gave him. "All I know is that we're to keep a watch on him and screen his mail." Dung's mouth suddenly curled into an "o" of shock. "I wasn't supposed to tell you that. Merlin's beard I wasn't even supposed to _know_ that anymore!" Doc's face might has well have been carved from stone, while Harry looked, quite understandably, severely betrayed and upset. Doc laid a hand on his shoulder, giving a single squeeze, before letting him go and turning to look back at Dung, who was starting to panic.

"I think we're done talking for now," Doc growled. " Good night." Before Dung could even ask what he meant, the other man chopped him on the back of the neck. Dung slumped like a melting snowman. Without even giving the man a second glance, Doc whipped out his own cellphone. "Boss, we've got a bigger problem now."


End file.
